60
Nate
Coach doesn’t say a single word for the first half of practice.
That is how I know I’m playing well. Coach is not a man of superfluous praise; to him, verbal approval is a resource to be rationed like water in a drought.
If you’re playing badly, he will personally disassemble your ego in front of twenty witnesses.
If you’re playing well, he lets you live in peace.
It’s a generous system, in a terrifying sort of way.
Today, I am allowed to live.
My skates bite deep into the fresh ice, the sound a crisp, satisfying *shick-shick* as I accelerate.
Carter feeds me a tape-to-tape pass through the neutral zone.
I take it, feel the weight of the puck settle, and cut left around Brooks.
I send it back to Carter for the finish before Ridgemont’s scout—who is still lurking around campus like a ghost in a blazer—can mark me down for being selfish.
Carter catches it and buries the shot. The puck snaps into the back of the net with a violent, beautiful *thwack*.
Coach says nothing. He just jots something on his clipboard. Perfection.
From the corner of the rink, Mason taps his stick against the boards. “Love science!” he bellows, his voice echoing off the rafters.
I turn my head slowly, giving him a look that usually precedes a shove. Carter points his stick at Mason. “Do not start, Monroe. I’m warning you.”
Mason grins, his mouthguard making him look slightly deranged. “The data supports the theory, boys. It’s empirical.”
“There is no data,” I say, skating past him.
“You’ve scored five points in two games since Hannah wore the jersey. That’s a case study. That’s a peer-reviewed breakthrough.”
“That is not how science works,” I mutter.
“Emotionally, it is.” Mason shrugs.
Coach’s whistle cracks across the ice, a sharp, piercing command. Everyone shuts up instantly. Coach points a gloved finger at Mason. “Monroe, if I hear the words ‘love science’ one more time, you’re skating until your grandchildren feel the burn. Clear?”
Mason nods solemnly. “Crystal, Coach.”
Coach looks at me next. He doesn't look angry. He doesn't even look annoyed. His gaze is just sharp, clinical, and focused. I lift my brows slightly, and after a beat, he looks away.
Practice continues, and for the first time in a long time, my head is entirely in the game. It’s a strange realization—that saying *I love you* to Hannah didn't scatter my focus. It didn't turn me into some romantic idiot who forgets which hand his stick goes in. If anything, it’s the opposite.
I feel steady. I’m running on less sleep than Coach would approve of, and my ribs still ache like hell from that Ridgemont hit, but the internal war is over.
I used to think that caring about someone this much would split me in half.
Turns out, pretending I *didn't* care was what was actually tearing me apart.
By the time practice ends, my lungs are burning and sweat is cooling under my pads. I’m halfway to the tunnel when Coach’s voice cuts through the noise of the departing team.
“Wilder.”
Carter glances at me, then at Coach, and makes a quick "good luck" gesture. Mason makes a dramatic sign of the cross with his stick. “Be brave, Nate,” he whispers.
“Get out, Monroe,” I mutter.
I skate over to the boards where Coach is standing. He has a look that feels like a psychological X-ray.
“You looked good today,” he says.
I almost look behind me to see if he’s talking to the Zamboni driver. “Thank you, sir.”
“Sharp feet. Better reads. Good discipline after the whistle.” He exhales through his nose—the Coach equivalent of a belly laugh. “Walk with me.”
I step off the ice, my skate guards clicking on the rubber matting as I follow him toward the hallway. We stop near the wall of team photos—decades of Northwood players in old jerseys and bad haircuts staring down at us.
“You figured something out,” Coach says. It’s not a question.
“Yes, sir.”
“Whatever was going on before, it was making you play heavy. Today, you didn’t.” He leans against the wall, crossing his arms. “So, what changed?”
I think of Hannah in my kitchen this morning. I think of the way she said *I love you too* like it was a relief she’d been waiting for her whole life. “It got honest,” I say finally.
Coach stares at me, unimpressed. “That’s vague as hell, Wilder.”
“I stopped pretending it didn't matter,” I clarify.
Coach absorbs this, his face settling into a look that isn't quite soft, but it’s certainly not hard. “Good. That kind of pretending burns energy you don’t have to waste. This the same girl who was in your jersey Friday? The girlfriend?”
“Yes.”
“She the reason you were a mess two weeks ago?”
“Yes.”
“And the reason you’re better now?”
I don’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Coach taps a finger against his arm. “Then don’t screw up a good thing. You’re young; you think everything that matters has to be a drama. It doesn't. Sometimes the best thing in your life is the thing that makes you show up better everywhere else. Today, you looked like a guy with a reason,
not a distraction.”
My throat tightens. I look away, but the weight of his words stays with me. *A reason.*
“Keep that version,” Coach says, pushing off the wall. “Good for you. Better for my team. Now get out of here.”
I meet Hannah after I shower. She’s waiting by my truck, looking buried in one of my hoodies, her nose pink from the cold. When she sees me, she smiles—that unguarded, messy smile that I’ve realized is my favorite thing in the world.
“Coach says you’re a reason, not a distraction,” I tell her as I reach her.
Her eyes widen, soft and stunned. “He said that?”
“In a Coach way. He also threatened to bench me if I ever play like shit again because of you.”
She laughs, the sound bright in the quiet parking lot. “Then I believe it.”
We drive to a diner off-campus. Hannah wants milkshakes and fries, and for a while, we just talk about the mundane things—Ella’s "Gerald governance" rules, Carter’s inability to text like a person with a functioning brain, the way the light looks different at 7:00 a.m.
But as the night settles, she grows quiet. She tells me about seeing Ethan earlier in the day, about the nod he gave her, and the lingering sadness she feels for hurting him.
“I don’t want to feel like I’m hiding anymore,” she says, her fingers tracing the edge of her glass. “Every good moment with you used to feel like I was trying to keep a secret. Now... I just want to be happy with you.”
“You can be,” I say, taking her hand across the table. “We can be.”
We leave the diner and head back to campus. We walk through the quad, past the buildings where our "fake" story unfolded, and stop near the fountain. It’s cold and dark, the water turned off for the season.
“You fake chose me,” Hannah says, looking at the stone basin. “And somehow, it made me start choosing myself. You saw me, Nate. Not the girl who was trying to be brave, but the girl who was scared and still trying.”
I pull her closer, my hands framing her face. The air is cold, but she’s warm, and the reality of her—of us—is the only thing that feels solid.
“I didn't make you brave, Hannah,” I whisper. “I just got lucky enough to be there when you started believing it yourself.”
I kiss her then, and it’s a simple, honest thing. No performance. No audience. Just a boy and a girl who stopped running in opposite directions. We walk back toward the dorms, hand in hand, and for once, the story behind us doesn't feel like a weight. It feels like the map that brought us home.